


Touch (come a little closer)

by too many stars to count (imagined_away)



Series: of the sea and the stars [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Ableism, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Race Changes, Bisexual Character, Community: femmeslash, Disabled Character, Disabled Sex, Established Relationship, F/F, Fem!Sherlock, Female Sherlock, Femlock, Femmeslash February, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Character of Color, Physical Disability, WOC!Sherlock, disabled!Joan Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagined_away/pseuds/too%20many%20stars%20to%20count
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan doesn't let her cane hold her back. She won't let anyone else either. Established fem!lock/Joan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch (come a little closer)

**Author's Note:**

> Arrives fifteen minutes late with femmeslash. I really wanted to get a story with these two in for Femmeslash February and I'm so glad I did! This is listed as second in the series right now, but it actually comes much later on as you'll see.
> 
> Sherlock says something ableist in this story. She later apologizes but I wanted to warn my fellow disabled peeps.

“Those are horribly impractical you know.”

“Sorry?” Joan looks up from the medical journal she’s been pursuing. She’s not a practicing doctor at the moment but it never hurt to keep up with the latest discoveries. Plus, who knew what might be useful on a case one day. “What’s impractical?”

“Your earrings,” Sherlock sighs, rolling her eyes. “In a fight they’d be incredibly easy to tear out. Not a serious injury, granted, but painful enough to be distracting. You should know better. A second of distraction can be the difference between life and death in a fight.” She curls up in her chair and gives Joan a look she’s well versed in. She recognizes it as the same look one of her secondary teachers loved to pull out after failed grammar tests. It says, quite clearly, that she expects better of Joan.

Joan, for her part, stares back, unimpressed. “Sherlock,” she says after a moment. I was  _ shot.  _ Twice.” Sherlock glares reproachfully as if she thinks this is unfair of Joan to bring up. “I’m pretty sure I could handle getting my earrings ripped out.” She fingers the simple studs she prefers. “Besides,” Joan adds thoughtfully, remembering a particularly vicious fight in a bar during uni, “It isn’t as easy as you seem to think.”

Sherlock scoffs unimpressed and stretches in the sun-drenched chair like a cat, the lace pattern of the curtain dancing over her warm brown skin. “That’s not the same as impossible. Honestly, Joan.”

“Please,” Joan scoffs back. “As if you’re one to talk. If my earrings are impractical what do you call your hair? At least I’ve got a pixie cut,” which reminds her, she needs to make an appointment to get it cut. Her fringe is nearly into her eyes. “You’ve got a bloody afro, Sherlock.”

“My hair,” Sherlock says darkly, “Is fantastic.”

Joan smiles, medical journal completely abandoned, and pushes out of her chair using her cane, “I’m not saying it isn’t,” she says soothingly, running a hand through Sherlock’s curls and bending to press a kiss to her forehead. Sherlock preens silently at the attention. “I’m just saying it’s impractical,” Joan adds, making her way to the kitchen to make tea. “Oi!” She laughs. seeing Sherlock’s glare. “You started this you bloody wanker!”

Sherlock grumbles quietly to herself the entire time Joan’s waiting for the kettle to boil. As the electric kettle pops off she shuffles into the kitchen still pouting. Joan leans her cane against the counter to reach the mugs on the bottom shelf.

Before she can touch them warm brown arms appear, bracketing her against the counter to grab two cups easily. Sherlock leaves them on the counter and wraps her arms around Joan instead, stooping to bury her face in Joan's good shoulder.

“What’s gotten into you then?” Joan asks kindly enough, pouring water over the tea bags. Sherlock mumbles inarticulately into Joan’s shoulder before pulling away just enough to press a kiss to the back of her neck. “Well that’s a lovely though,” Joan hums, abandoning their steeping tea to carefully squirm until she and Sherlock are face to face. “Sherlock,” she says quietly, pressing a kiss to her jawline. Sherlock hums absently at the attention. Joan takes it as an okay to continue.

“Idon’twantyoutogethurtinafight,” Sherlock spits out, the words so piled upon each other that they’re barely recognizable as a sentence. Joan, feeling a little drunk from the softness of her girlfriend’s skin under her lips takes a moment to understand. When she pulls back Sherlock is staring at their now oversteeped cups of tea.

“Hey,” Joan says softly, shifting her weight mostly to her good leg before reaching up to cup Sherlock’s face in her hand. “I’m okay,” she says as Sherlock pushes into the contact.

“I am aware that you are currently as close to optimal health as you can be.” Sherlock says sounding frustrated, but not pulling away from Joan’s hand. From anyone else it’d be an insult. From Sherlock, who already spends so much time struggling with the limitations of language. it’s an admission of affection. “But that isn’t a guarantee of future health.”

“Mmm, no,” Joan agrees, “But that’s a fairly miserable way to go through life.” She’s been standing long enough that the damaged muscle in her leg starts to protest. Unwilling to lose the thread of their conversation Joan shifts the remainder of her weight as subtly as possible estimating she can stand for upwards of ten more minutes if necessary. She’s careful to keep her face impassive but Sherlock still notices. She doesn’t say anything, just pulls away and leaves the kitchen headed for the bedroom. Joan heaves a sigh, grabs her cane, and follows.

Sherlock’s lying on her side of the bed, facing the rest of the room. Gingerly Joan gets into bed, wrapping herself around Sherlock as best she can. “What’s going on in that mind palace of yours, hmm?”

“In a fight you’re at a distinct disadvantage. I’m merely trying to minimize your risk factor.” Sherlock says into Joan’s hair. “In fact I think it might be better if you stayed behind on some of our future cases, depending on who we’re tracking down,” she says it casually as if this isn’t a huge and terrible thing to say.

Joan, feeling completely blindsided, takes a deep breath and does not shout. She pulls back so she can see Sherlock’s face and, in the calmest voice she can manage, which admittedly sounds more like a growl than anything else, says, “What. The.  _ Fuck.  _ Sherlock.”

Sherlock has the audacity to look hurt. “I’m trying to look out for your safety! Just last week a London man with a cane was attacked and needed to be hospitalized. I’m being thoughtful!”

“ No,” Joan says sitting up and feeling sick right down to the pit of her stomach, “You’re being an arsehole.” Sherlock tries to protest but Joan isn’t done yet. “I’m not some sort of wilting flower, Sherlock. I was a soldier. The day we met I took down a bloke who must have had ten stones on me. I can take care of myself.” She scrubs at the tears starting to fall down her face. “How dare you reduce me to my disability. How  _ dare  _ you.” It feels like shaking apart she’s so angry. Joan gropes blindly behind her for her cane, but quick get aways aren’t possible anymore and before she finds it Sherlock has a gentle hold on her wrist.

“Wait, Joan,” Sherlock is clamoring up onto her knees, careful not to box her in. “Just wait, please.” Joan, finally gripping her cane, jerks her arm out of Sherlock’s grasp, but takes several deep breaths and let’s the cane clatter back against the bed stand.

“What?” she asks harshly, feeling the tension creep into her bad shoulder, knotting already damaged muscles. She’ll be feeling this tonight, that’s for sure.

“I may have handled that poorly,” Sherlock says after a minute, scrubbing a hand through her hair.

“You think?” Joan huffs out.

“I just - I find myself unable to stop worrying that something will happen to you in the course of our work.” Tentatively she places her hand on the blanket between them. “It wasn’t my intention to imply that I find you to be a danger or liability in case work. I merely want to keep you safe.”

Joan sighs, recognizing Sherlock’s apology for what it is but unwilling to let it go at just that this time. She doe take Sherlock’s hand though. “I know you didn’t mean to reduce me to a bad leg and a cane, but you did. Do you understand why I’m upset?” Joan asks. After Sherlock nods, she continues, “Do you see why I would appreciate an explicit apology then?”

“I do. I apologize for my behavior and I won’t repeat my actions.” Sherlock says solemnly. Sherlock’s apologies sound like they came out of a book on feelings, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t heartfelt. She still looks terrified though, as if Joan might do a runner (so to speak) at any moment.

“ Thank you,” she says, kissing Sherlock’s hand. “I accept your apology. I’d also like to point out,” Joan adds in a lofty tone, “That  _ you  _ are the one who needed stitches last month after you took a rock to the head.  _ I  _ was the one who knocked our suspect unconscious and then gave you said stitches after you refused to go to the hospital.”

“Who carries a rock in their pocket for the sole purpose of throwing it at people?” Sherlock grumbles.

“Apparently the same type of person who crushes someone to death at a construction site.” Joan says against Sherlock’s mouth. Whatever reply Sherlock may have had is abandoned in favor of kissing.

Eventually the twist of her abdomen begins to pull at her legs and Joan pulls Sherlock into her lap not pausing in their kissing. Sherlock buries her hands in Joan’s hair and Joan’s hands settle at her hips.

 It’s difficult for Joan to actually be on top unless she’s having a very good day pain wise, but that doesn’t mean she can’t be in charge. She slips her fingers under Sherlock’s sleep shirt before pulling it off altogether. Joan loves it when Sherlock lounges around the house in her pajamas and there’s no bra to take off. She drops kisses on Sherlock’s breast until she feels her own shirt being pulled on.

As soon as Sherlock has her shirt and bra off Joan lies back on the pillows pulling Sherlock with her. Joan tilts her head to the side giving Sherlock better access to her neck. Sherlock works her way down to where neck meets shoulder, biting gently at the tensed muscle she find. “We can take a hot bath later,” she offers between nips to Joan’s collarbone, “Help your shoulder relax.”

“I can think of something we can do right now to help me relax.” Joan says with a lazy grin, pulling Sherlock back up to messily kiss her. Orgasms are Joan’s favorite type of muscle relaxer by far.

In just a few minutes Sherlock’s wedged one knee between Joan’s legs. She’s straddling Joan’s good leg while panting desperate little ‘more’s into her ear.

“Off,” Joan gasps, pulling at Sherlock’s pajama bottoms. “Get them off.” Sherlock rolls to the side pulling her trousers and pants off all at once. Joan begins the awkward shimmy required to get her jeans off. She gives a sharp hiss as they drag over the scar too quickly and Sherlock is back pressing a kiss to her scar and working the jeans off gently while Joan does her pants.

As soon as they’re both naked Sherlock climbs back on top of her. Sherlock’s breath is hot and moist at her throat. Joan grabs her hips, pulling, urging her to move. Sherlock begins to slowly rock back and forth on Joan’s thigh, her own leg rubbing Joan’s clit with every pass. Joan digs her fingers into Sherlock’s hips and ducks her head to lavish kisses on her shoulder.

Sherlock speeds up, her face buried in Joan’s neck. “That’s it,” Joan murmurs, running one of her hands up Sherlock’s back, “Come on babe, let me see how beautiful you are when you come,” Sherlock stutters, her pattern breaking, and comes with a moan muffled by Joan’s skin. Joan nudges at Sherlock’s face until she lifts her head. “You’re amazing,” she tells her between kisses.

“Recovered, one of Sherlock’s hands slips between their bodies, fingers skimming Joan’s folds. Joan’s on edge just from seeing Sherlock come and she can’t help but cry out when a finger starts circling her clit. “Oh, oh,” she pants, breaking away from their kissing. A slight change in pressure and Joan’s coming, panting little cries into Sherlock’s mouth.

Joan takes a moment to appreciate the utter relaxation weighing her down right now. She feels Sherlock slip away to the bathroom and return with a damp flannel.

Once they’re both clean and the flannel is in the hamper Sherlock climbs back into bed. pulling the covers up around the, she plasters herself to Joan’s side. Joan runs her fingers through Sherlock’s hair - her girlfriend is not entirely unlike a cat sometimes -  and relaxes, sharing the occasional lazy kiss.

Joan’s about to suggest they take that bath (her shoulder is not easily defeated and she can feel the tightness creeping back in) when a thought pops into her head. “Hey, Sherlock,” she feels a hum against her head, “Do you think I can count this as my PT for the day?” Joan manages to keep a straight face until Sherlock pulls away to arch an eyebrow at her.

She cracks, her laughter downing out whatever response Sherlock may have had.

  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I typed this up and posted in about an hour so if I missed any glaring errors please let me know!


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